"'At's five hund'ed dollahs. Roll 'em."
"Gallopers, git right."
The Wildcat gave the dice a Turkish bath, a manicure, and a careful massaging between the perspiring palms of his hands.
He cast a handful of prepared ivory from him. The dice were festooned with equal parts of luck and technical skill, but their precise trajectory was interrupted by a string of high joints and low centres in the track over which rambled the Panama Limited.
"An' I reads—ace and deuce."
The cinnamon-coloured boy picked up the money on the floor.
"'At'll learn you."
The Wildcat was silent. The Backslid Baptist, sharing the shadow of his associate's sudden cloud of black luck, spoke slowly to him.
"C'm on heah, Wilecat. Us is nex' do' to bein' busted."
In the wake of the Backslid Baptist the Wildcat ambled back through the swaying cars to the Mazeppa. He carried on his bowed shoulders a load of misery big enough to bust a bottle of dynamite gin.